


Shuttle Messages

by NeverKnightfire



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Al being extra, Alastor and his antiques, Angel is over it, Getting Together, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Vaggie is So Done (Hazbin Hotel), propriety vs technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverKnightfire/pseuds/NeverKnightfire
Summary: These kids just don’t understand the proper way of doing things. If he could just find his shuttle, Alastor would teach them the value of a properly-crafted message!
Relationships: Alastor/Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	Shuttle Messages

“Husker!" Alastor's voice rang out like the cry of distant thunder, echoing down the long hallways of the hotel, "I am in need a shuttle!" 

"Shit," Husk muttered, dropping his rag and ducking out of the bar. The cat chimera's attitude was all-business as he passed Vaggie where she was sorting through the hotel records. 

"A _shuttle?"_ Vaggie echoed, ever-increasing confusion scribing its way slowly across her features as the Radio Demon stormed into the lobby, hauling a decently-sized grey, wedge-shaped case and a small wooden crate. "What kind of shuttle are you needing?" Visions of the manic deer demon repurposing a defunct space shuttle and blasting his way straight to Heaven danced horribly in her head at the word. 

"It's for the cylinder, or wheel, rather," Alastor muttered. He was only half paying her any mind as he passed off the crate to Husk and chose a table near the bar for the case in his hands. "Only about this big. I can't imagine where I've misplaced the thing." He held one hand up, fingers spaced apart in measurement before he set down his burden and grabbed a nearby chair. 

Vaggie felt something in her brain disconnect at the description. "What kind of shuttle is a wheel? What's it for?” 

"For the letters," Alastor replied, making a face at the way Vaggie repeated the words, utterly lost. "For the italics, dear girl!" Al sighed as if he were the only intelligent person in a world of utter imbeciles. "For the _italics!_ One cannot write a proper notice of one's intentions, be they benign or malicious, without italics!" 

Angel Dust, who'd been sprawled across the nearest sofa on his phone, perked up. A toothy grin of amusement was pulling at his face when he exchanged glances with the baffled Vaggie. "An' you need a cylinder full of italics to write with, eh Smiles?" 

"Precisely!" Alastor exclaimed, as if he didn't sound like an utter madman. "Husker, check the storage bin again, I'm completely at a loss." 

Husk made no comment on how ridiculous his quest sounded. Instead, he began rifling through the proffered box of mechanical parts in a purposeful, determined manner. One by one, he pulled out various bits and bobs of metal, fabric, and even some wooden pieces, inspecting them thoroughly before he set them aside on the table Alastor had claimed for his weird suitcase. 

Alastor popped the latches on the case, gently leaning the disproportionately deep lid backwards to reveal a weird conglomeration of metal and a thick cord inside. As he lifted the contraption free of its prison, he cast a look about before conjuring a new electrical outlet in the nearest wall. "Be a dear and plug me in, won't you?" he hummed to Vaggie, handing her the end of the cord. 

“What the hell is that supposed to be?" she demanded, eyeing the device doubtfully. When she made no move towards the outlet, Alastor stole the plug back from her and plunged the thing into the outlet as if he were stabbing a particularly bothersome vertical rat. 

“The Hammond Varityper is a typewriter, Vagatha. In fact, one could argue it a work of practical art. Do try and keep up, won't you?" 

The thing that had disconnected in Vaggie's head went a step further and began to make an insistent pinging sound, like a spring that had been wound too tightly on a music box. "That monstrosity is supposed to be a _typewriter?!_ " she demanded, waving a hand at the device as Alastor seated himself in front of it. "It's older than... than..." 

“Do at least think of a _specific_ dinosaur this time, my dear. Your hyperbole's been getting a little stale," Alastor drawled, letting his eyes fall half-lidded in an expression of droll amusement. 

"Than... than brontosaurus!" Vaggie exclaimed in triumph. "There! Your ridiculous prehistoric typewriter is older than a fictional sauropod!" 

"Fictional?" Alastor echoed, brows raising. "What in the world is a fictional sauropod? 

"It never was a real dinosaur, they put the wrong head on the wrong body and thought it was something new," Vaggie explained, nodding to herself in satisfaction. It felt good to finally get one over on the Radio Demon and his seemingly endless bullshit. Instead of being properly affronted, Alastor slapped his thigh and laughed out loud. 

"I'm afraid it is you who is behind the times, my dear! I've heard Baxter speak of the creature you named being reinstated! I expect that soon Pluto shall be a proper planet again soon, at that." He grinned at her, eyes sparkling with the particular nostalgic mirth that always accompanied one of his jaunts down memory lane. 

"Ah, I remember reporting the discovery of that little orb to my eager listeners! It was quite a time! I can scarcely believe that anyone would dare try and deprive it of its status.." 

“It's too small ta be a planet, that's what I heard," Angel Dust interjected with a shrug. The others paused, giving him startled looks at his addition to the conversation. "Eh, I was arm candy to some dickweed astronomer for a few weeks back in the day. Learned more junk about space rocks than I ever wanted ta know, ya know? The guy didn't even laugh at my jokes about Uranus. Anyway, if they kept _Pluto_ , they had ta add a bunch more dumb mini planets, too." 

"And so, what if they did?" Alastor demanded, casting an arm towards the ceiling. "The more the merrier! Why subtract when you can add?" 

Husk let out a long-suffering sigh as he held up a handful of metal band sections, emblazoned with letters and numbers. "Because unlike you, Al, not everyone thinks more is better. Now which damn italic am I looking for? I got two here so far, and unlike you I got other shit to do today." 

_"Have you?"_ Alastor asked, giving Husk a look of innocent interest on his face. Husk growled out a series of curses as he dropped the objects on the desk, uncaring of the way they clattered off the surface and into the floor. With a sour look on his face, Husk stalked back off towards the bar. 

"This is a lot of trouble ta go through just to threaten some asswipe," Angel opined as Alastor selected his preferred shuttles from the pile spilling into the floor. "Why go ta all this trouble when you can just send an email? It's a helluva lot easier! They got all the fonts and shit'cha could want, and none'a this mess." 

Alastor scoffed, primly giving Angel a glare from over the top of his rose-colored monocle. "Easier is not a consideration for this endeavor," he retorted. "This is about proper communication. Honestly, Angel Dust, I'd ask if you have no sense of pride, but it seems that's a non-starter. Instead, I'll suggest that you should have a better sense of _propriety_ , considering your era!" 

"My era?!" Angel was laughing out loud now, and Husk turned around mid-stride to return to the conversation with an utterly done expression on his face. "Fuck me, Smiles! My _ERA_ is whenever the fuck I am! I ain't tying myself to some geezer aesthetic when I can have it easier with all this modern shit they got now!" 

Husk stood behind Alastor, arms crossed and one ear twitching with barely-contained annoyance. Alastor himself was sneering openly at the cackling spider demon. "Just look at this sorry specimen, Husker," Alastor complained. "I'd venture he uses those garish hieroglyphics in all of his _Eeee-mails._ " The Radio Demon dragged out the word as if he enjoyed torturing it. 

"Ya gotta use emojis!" Angel sputtered, furious at the condescending attitude. "Otherwise how's anyone 'sposed ta know what kinda tone ya taking, huh? It's called clarity!" Vaggie found herself nodding along with the comment. 

Alastor took a shallow breath and let it out before raising his head to look back over his shoulder at Husk. "Do you see this, Husker? The clutching fingers of _modernity_ have claimed yet another poor soul. They have not only stripped away his notions of proper written communication with the grotesque puppetry offered by convenience, but they have also deprived him of his ability to express intent and tone without little pictures!" 

"A tragic state," Husk tutted, shaking his head. "Poor jackass probably ain't seen real stationery since he kicked off of Before." 

“There's no loyalty to one's roots anymore, Husker!" Alastor sighed dramatically. "No one seems to value their origins when they can simply cast them aside for the easy and..." the Radio Demon made a face as if he smelled something odious. "And _electronic!_ It's generations of instant gratification, tearing down the good and proper standards that we cling to." 

"Shameful," Husk agreed, pulling his cell phone out of one wing and tapping off a quick text. 

“How the hell d'ya get off lecturing me on this shit when ya got a damn phone of your own?" Angel demanded. Vaggie threw her hands in the air, walking away from the conversation. 

"Look kids," Husk grumbled, rolling his eyes. "First off, phones are supposed to be for talkin', not sending badly-spelled messages that look like a poor man's rebus puzzle book with your thumbs. It's novel to try that shit out once in a while, but it ain't the way you send someone a _serious_ communication." 

He nodded his head at Alastor, who remained the image of victorious offense. "It ain't just about sendin' a message, it's about sendin’ a _message_." 

"Husker gets it," Alastor huffed. "Your little thumb-messages are quaint, but they don't exude the aura of a proper letter. Where is the dread of a sealed envelope? The import that comes with the feel of a good sheepskin vellum? There is a weight that comes with a good business letter. A direness that exudes from the paper when you can see that it was crafted with great purpose and intent, with multiple shuttles being exchanged to give precisely the right appearance to the characters on the page!" 

"The ribbon soaked in demon blood ain't all that cozy, either," Husk threw in. 

"You see? _Husker_ gets it! Try getting that sort of dignified menace from a tiny picture of a cartoonish blood droplet!" Alastor announced, adjusting his seat before the machine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a message to craft." 

Husk wandered back off to the bar and began polishing the glassware. Alastor loaded a yellowed piece of parchment-like paper into the ancient device. As he began to tap at the keys, Angel rolled his eyes. Didn't these geezers know that modern and easier was always better? The quiet keystrokes of the antique typewriter were suddenly interrupted by a loud noise from the motor. Alastor and Husk seemed unaware of the noise, which happened again exactly thirteen keystrokes later. 

"Forget this. If I wanted ta listen ta something screechy getting hammered, I'da stayed at work! I'm going out!" Angel announced, throwing two sets of double birds at the two remaining occupants of the lobby as he stormed out of the front door. 

Unperturbed, Alastor continued to tap away at his message. A few lines later, he released the page from the machine and admired his handiwork. "There truly is no modern equivalent for a good room-clearer, wouldn't you say, Husker?" 

"Ya ran off everybody else just t' get some private time with me? I'm flattered, Al", Husk hummed, his voice rumbling with a throaty purr. "A guy could get the idea you were sweet on him or somethin', doin' shit like that." He watched as Al stood, pacing over to the bar and presenting him with a very properly typed letter. He scanned the contents and snorted. 

"Ya didn't need to make such a fuss. Not just t' ask me out for some grub." His smug grin faded to a shallow smirk that wavered with something almost bashful. He ducked his head slightly, looking away from his companion. "I'm glad ya did though, Al. Makes me feel all... important an' shit." 

“Oh Husker, don't you know?" Alastor replied, reaching out to gently trace the line of the cat demon's jaw with one sharp digit. "You are _quite important and shit_ , my dearest love." 

**Author's Note:**

> I hc that Al and Angel enjoy trading insults with each other to see who can annoy the other enough to leave first, and one the the preferred subjects of mockery between them is Al’s dedication to the aesthetic, manners, and technology of “his time”.
> 
> The Hammond Varitype is a real machine! This early electric typewriter from Al’s era is a very interesting machine. One of its features is the ability to change fonts by swapping out “shuttles” that fit on the center cylinder.


End file.
